


Caught in the Act

by WeirdAssomnio



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Agent Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:32:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdAssomnio/pseuds/WeirdAssomnio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Betrayed and on the run, CBI Agent Derek Hale needed a hiding place, but would Stiles Stilinski be his downfall or his deliverance? Drawn to the rugged agent who embodied his secret yearnings, feisty Stiles Stilinski trusted him with his life - but would he trust him with his heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Act

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of this amazing show or its characters.

Damn, he'd forgotten how much it hurt to get shot.

Derek hale leaned against the huge dumpster at the edge of the convenience store parking lot. He'd lost his cell somewhere on his way there.

The phone booth on the corner a dozen yards away was his goal. He hoped he didn't bleed to death before he got there. His clothes had finally dried - except for the blood soaking through his shirt and jacket - but he still felt frozen to the bone from the storm that had suddenly hit and drenched him.

He couldn't figure out why he was still alive. Argent and Daehler should have been able to find him while he had lain unconscious in the rain drenched woods. How long he'd been there was anyone's guess. It had been daylight when the deal went down, now it was well past dark. He checked his watch. The crystal was shattered, the hour hand missing.

However long he'd been there, it obviously hadn’t been long enough. He wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and rest. Just for a minute. Maybe two. Yet he knew that if he relaxed so much as a muscle, he'd be down for the count. He locked his knees to keep from sliding down the side of the dumpster. Maybe he'd close his eyes for just a few seconds.

_No. Don't close your eyes, man. Don't play back that scene._

His vision was blurry. He blinked. Above the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the screaming sounds of a hundred frogs from the woods nearby, he thought he heard music.

In the next instant, a blue jeep whipped off the main road and drove into the parking lot. The driver, a young man, had the window down and the radio blasted something twangy and mournful.

He never thought he'd be so happy to hear country music. Hale slid deeper into the shadows. No point alarming some innocent citizen. Just as the young man killed the jeep engine and got out, a Beacon County Deputy Sheriff's car pulled into the spot next to it. Hale let out a breath of relief. Here, was help. As soon as he could gather enough strength to make it across the parking lot and show his badge.

While he fumbled for his badge, a hard shiver rattled him. Vaguely he heard the deputy call a greeting to the young man from the jeep.

Just as his fingers clasped the cool leather holding his badge, the radio in the cruiser caught his attention. If possible, his blood turned even colder.

 

_"....... Armed and dangerous. We repeat, the California State Bureau of Investigation has issued an all-points bulletin for CBI agent Derek Hale, suspected of murdering a fellow member of the state attorney general's Special task force on drugs. Federal Drug Enforcement Administration agent Timothy Greenburg was pronounced dead at the scene. The suspect's superior, CBI agent Gerard Argent, was on the scene and witnessed the shooting. Argent and Greenburg allegedly came upon agent Hale making a drug buy from a suspect the task force has been investigating. The incident took place in Beacon Hills, and the suspect is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information......"_

 

The sudden roar of blood in Derek's ears drowned out the rest of the broadcast. He ground his teeth and swore silently. Damn that lying, murdering son of a bitch!

Derek unclenched his fingers one at a time from around his badge and slid deeper into the shadow of the dumpster. His thoughts tumbled one over the other, seeking an answer. The only thing he knew was that he had to hide. He had to get somewhere safe, see how badly he was hurt, and let his mind clear long enough to figure a way out of this mess.

A bulletin. For him! Shit. _Mom, you were right. I should've been a dentist._

He had to get out of there, get somewhere dry and warm so he could think. Was anybody else at the agency involved? Was there anyone he could trust? 

 

. _..... Suspected of murdering ......._

 

No. He couldn't afford to trust anyone. Not even his partner. Not yet.

The deputy and the young man went around the rear of the jeep. The cop opened the back, stuck his head in, then reared back waving his hand in front of his face and laughing. Then they both went into the store. They left the back door of the jeep open.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Another storm was moving in fast, a blast of wind swooped down the back of Derek's collar and shimmied down his spine like icy fingers. He had to get out of the weather or he'd never survive. He pushed himself off the dumpster.

He tried to crouch and run, but ended up staggering across the parking lot. Damn, how much blood had he lost? He was weak as a baby.

Inside the jeep was a driver's seat, passenger's seat and an open floor from there to the back door. Directly behind the driver's seat lay a wadded up blue tarp that reeked of fish.

Derek didn't care if it smelled like skunk. Cover was cover. He crawled beneath it and spread it over him. Changing from an upright position to laying down put a different twist on his wound on his left side just above his belt. He stifled a groan and pressed his arm over the hole in his side.

Voices. The young man and the deputy came out of the store and stood next to the jeep. 

"Come on, Stiles, have a heart" there was laughter in exaggerated plea. "I get off in another hour"

"Good, I'm sure Lydia and the kids will be glad to see you"

"Spoilsport"

"Jerk! If someone ever said yes to one of your stupid propositions, you'd run so fast in other way, the breeze would suck their eyeballs dry"

The cop chuckled "I'm not that transparent"

"Parish, Parish. Sure you are" barely suppressed laughter colored his voice. "You're crazy about your wife and kids, and everybody knows it"

The cop snorted, then chuckled "I confess. I'm guilty. You better get on home before the next storm hits. They're saying we might get some hail out of this one"

"I'm on my way" Stiles opened the driver's door and climbed in. "Damn, I forgot the back door"

"I'll get it" footsteps crunched, Derek held his breath and froze.

"Better keep your window down" the cop called from the back of the jeep "That fish smell will suffocate you"

 _Yeah, well, you ought a smell it from under here,_ Derek thought.

The back door slammed shut. The deputy and the young man said their goodbyes and the jeep roared to life. Sounded like it needed a new muffler.

Derek braced himself as the jeep rattled and bounced out of the parking lot and onto the highway. Heavy gusts of winds rocked the vehicle as it sped through the night. A few minutes later the jeep slowed, but not nearly enough for the turn it made. The new road was winding and rough. The tires bounced in and out of ruts. Derek's side screamed with pain. More than once his head thumped hard against the floor. Some of the jolts were sharp enough to knock his teeth loose, he was sure.

The young man cranked up the volume on the radio. Derek closed his eyes. He wasn't going to die. He absolutely refused to die. No way in hell he was going to go out and the last thing he heard be country music!

 

                                       ************************************************************

 

A mile from the highway, Stiles Stilinski whipped off the muddy, rutted road and onto his driveway. Another loud thud echoed from the back of the jeep. He was going to have to secure that tire iron one of these days, before the clank and rattle drove him crazy.

 He pulled to a stop on the concrete pad before his garage. His dogs, imprisoned behind the chain link fence in the backyard, barked a greeting. Stiles called back to them, reassuring them that it was okay and he wasn't a burglar. He got out and opened the garage door, then drove the car inside. The poor vehicle was battered enough, if the new storm rolling in brought hail, he wanted the jeep to be sheltered.

With the bare bulb hanging from the garage ceiling sending out a bleak glow, he grabbed his backpack and climbed out of the jeep.

Oh yeah, The tarp. He had to get it outside. The way it smelled. he didn't care if the hail ripped it or the wind blew it away. This was absolutely the last time he was loaning anything to his dad to take fishing at the lake.

He circled the jeep and yanked open the back door. Grabbing one corner of the fish tainted tarp, he gave it a tug and started dragging it out. A large, bloody hand appeared from beneath and tossed the tarp aside.

For one heart stopping moment, Stiles stared at the battered, hard eyed stranger in shock. Then he yelled, totally didn't scream, well maybe he did - but it was definitely a manly scream. Shut up it totally was!

Outside the side garage door to the backyard, the dogs snarled and barked furiously.

The man moved slowly, his face all but hidden by the shadows in the jeep, but not hidden enough to conceal the sheen of sweat on his brow or the way his wet black hair was plastered to his skull. "Take it easy" he held a hand up, palm out "I won't hurt you"

Startled from his shock by the deep, breathless voice, Stiles grabbed the loose tire iron from the jeep's floor and held it up like a baseball bat "That's right, mister, you won't"

The man's bloody hand flopped down on the tarp. "Ah hell, I wish you hadn't done that"

Stiles tried to swallow, but his throat was to dry. "Why not?" he found himself asking

"Because now," he said slowly, almost regretfully "I have to do this" his other hand slid from beneath the tarp and pointed a small, lethal looking pistol straight at Stiles' chest.

Stiles dropped the tire iron so fast, that the man chuckled.

"Smart move, I always did like a man with brains"

Hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat. He nearly choked on it. This couldn't be happening. Not to him, a former Sheriff's son, for heavens sake. It was just too ludicrous, too ironic. The man's words were innocuous enough on the surface. To anyone else, they would have just sounded exactly like what a man in his position would say. They also happened to be the exact words that 'Jack O'Neil' frequently used. The giggle threatened again.

"All I need is a little help, then I'll be on my way"

 _Yeah sure_ , Stiles thought, _that's what they all say_ "What kind of help?"

As he struggled to sit up, the gun dipped. Just for a second, during that instant, Stiles thought about running. Thought about it hard. But he knew he would never make it out of the garage. He couldn't outrun a bullet.

THe man shoved the tarp completely away, disturbing the smell of trapped in it folds and sending the rank odor of fish billowing out in sickening waves. When he moved into the light, Stiles' breath caught. The entire left side of his jacket from just above his waist to the bottom and all down the thigh of his jeans was covered in blood.

"You're him, aren't you? The one they're all looking for"

"I don't suppose", he said, struggling for breath as he scooted towards him "That you'd believe I was innocent"

"Of course I believe you" Stiles replied with a sarcastic, but wary tone.

The man laughed, then hugged his side and groaned. 

"Good tactic, make me laugh until I lose enough blood to pass out"

The closer he came to the rear of the jeep, the farther Stiles backed away.

"That's far enough" he barked, the gun aimed once again at Stiles' chest.

Stiles froze where he was, a mere two feet from the jeep's bumper. Outside, thunder rumbled and the wind roared. Or was it his heartbeat, and the blood rushing in his ears?

Cautiously, one inch at a time, the man lowered his feet to the floor of the garage. Over the pounding of his heart in his ears and the racket the dogs were making outside, Stiles thought he heard him groan. He motioned with the gun. "Close the garage door, and Stiles, please do it carefully, from inside the garage"

"How...... How did you know my name?" his use of it unnerved Stiles.

"That's what lover boy at the store called you"

"Lover boy?"

"The deputy, now close the door"

"And quiet those damn dogs" Stiles didn't care for his tone, but then, he didn't care for his gun either.

Actually, that wasn't exactly true. It was having the gun pointed at him that made his throat lock up. The gun itself was a different matter. It was a .38 caliber Chief Special, model 60. It held five rounds and was small enough to carry in a women's purse. The two inch stainless steel barrel gleamed in the dim light. If the butt, presently swallowed by the man's huge hand, was round, then this was an exact duplicate of the belly gun 'Jack O'Neil' carried in his ankle holster. He'd been wanting to add one to his collection for months.

"Shut those dogs up now!" the man growled

Stiles jerked "Seiko! Rolex! Quiet!"

The barking stopped instantly, replaced by low growls

Carefully putting his weight on his legs, the fugitive with the .38 squinted at him. "Seiko and what?"

"Rolex" 

One corner of the man's mouth stretched upward while his brow lowered.

Stiles shrugged. "They're watchdogs. What else would I call them"?

The man actually laughed. Then groaned and squeezed his arm against his bloody side.

"Damn, you're doing it again" Derek shook his head in wonder. By all rights, the young man should have been hysterical with terror by now. Not that Derek wanted him to be. Hysterical people did stupid things and he doubted that he had the strength to deal with stupid things just then.

He looked at Stiles again, surprised to feel admiration for the gutsy young man. He couldn't be much shorter than Derek, but a lot skinnier. He'd bet that the young man would have trouble walking upright in a strong wind. Wariness and fear shadowed whiskey colored eyes. His hands shook, but his shoulders were straight, his chin poked out like a challenge.

Derek shook his head. "I look like a refugee from a war zone, the radio says I'm a cop-killing drug dealer. I've got a gun pointed at you, I'm on the run for my life and you're making me laugh"

"Sorry" Stiles rubbed the palm of his hands down the thighs of his jeans. "Nervous habit, when some people get scared they cry. I crack jokes"

"Who else is here?"

"No one, I live alone" 

He shook his head "Damn, don't you know better than to tell that to a stranger? You should have told me that you have five older brothers inside, all starting tackles for a football team. Where's your sense of self-preservation?"

The young man gave a jerky shrug "I'm a lousy liar, always have been"

Derek muttered a particularly foul curse. He'd gone and grabbed himself an escapee from the loony bin. "Hand me your bag"

Stiles blinked at him "What?" 

"Your bag" he pointed with the gun. "You know that thing that's hanging off your shoulder, hand it over"

He looked over his should at the bag like he didn't know how it got there. Maybe he wasn't as calm as he seemed.

He slid the strap free and carefully handed Derek the bag. Derek dug around in it, keeping the gun and one eye on Stiles until he came up with his car keys. He stuffed them into the left front pocket of his jeans. "Just so you don't decide to go for a drive"

He motioned for Stiles to move towards the door leading into the house. He barely balked as Derek forced him through the kitchen and the den, down the hall and into the bathroom. Derek closed the door, sealing them in, and leaned back with a heavy sigh. "I need a little cleaning up and a bandage". Stiles felt suffocated in the close confines of the bathroom with him. The odor of fish wasn't the only problem. He'd never been in a bathroom with a man before, much less one holding a gun on him. His hands shook violently. He looked at the gun and swallowed. Stiles stared at the bloody mess below Derek's left arm and gulped again. "You'll - " he had to stop and swallow once more. "You'll have to take off your jacket and ..... Shirt".

With his head back against the door and his eyes closed, Derek smiled "Why Stiles, I thought you'd never ask".

"Stop it," he cried. "My stupid jokes are bad enough. Yours aren't even funny".

"Sorry" Derek forced his eyes open and braced himself for the ordeal of having his wound tended to. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm kinda new in the hostage taking business". He pushed himself from the door. Stiles had to help him slip off his jacket.

The look on his face when he spotted Derek's shoulder holster made him grin wryly. "It won't bite. It's empty. Just slide it off".

He did, but instead of dropping it to the floor like he'd done with Derek's jacket, he held it a moment, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the smooth leather. A curious reaction, Derek thought. Then Stiles carefully hung the holster over the shower curtain rod.

Derek tried to unbutton his shirt one handed, but his fingers fumbled the job.

"Here" briskly Stiles pushed Derek's hands aside and took over.

Ah hell, his hands were soothing, Derek thought, never mind how hard they shook.

"Is that what I am" he asked "your hostage?"

Derek didn't much care for the sound of it, but what else could he call Stiles? "I've got a gun and you don't. I guess that makes you the hostage".

"Thanks, I needed to hear that" Stiles jerked his shirt tail from his jeans. The action jarred his wound and tore it where the shirt had stuck. Derek hissed in a sharp breath of pain.

"Sorry" Stiles muttered "sit down".

Derek studied Stiles' frown of concentration for a moment. He had yet to look Derek in the eye since they'd entered the house.

"If I sit, are you going to bolt? I've got to tell you, I hope you don't. I have enough of charges against me as it is. I'd sure hate to add more to the list".

This time his voice was softer. Resigned. "Sit down".

Derek sat down on the closed toilet lid and suffered the indignity of being washed like a baby. But those hands, those soft, soothing, long fingered hands of his, made Derek feel more like a healthy man than a helpless babe. An entirely inappropriate response, under the circumstances. As Stiles knelt next to him, Derek looked down at his dark head, bent to study his side and had to fight the urge to touch him.

The light over the sink gave an auburn highlights to his hair, a rich deep brown, it glowed with health and softness and it made him want to see it in the sunlight, to sink his fingers into it, feel the softness, the warmth. God, he was so cold.

Then Stiles got to cleaning his wound, and Derek forgot all about touching him. His responses to soft hands took a back seat to pain. Stiles was gentle, he'd give him that, and the wound wasn't deep, but it still hurt like blue blazes. The slug had creased a furrow about four inches long on his side. When Stiles used tweezers to pick pieces of cloth from the gash, he let a string of curse words that turned his ears red.

"Is that necessary?" Stiles demanded

"Yes" he hissed "It makes me feel better".

"Well, swearing is rude".

Derek wanted to laugh again, but he hurt to damn much. "Trust me, swearing's not near as rude as pointing a gun at you".

Stiles clamped his lips together and didn't say another word. After spreading antibiotic ointment over the wound, he pressed a gauze pad to it, then wrapped gauze strips around his torso to hold the pad in place. In the process, he felt Stiles' arms encircle his waist, arms that, now the pain was easing, teased him with the thought of holding him, easing his pain away.

 _You're losing it, buddy_ \- he thought to himself.

Stiles' fingers brushed his chest and side, sending hot shivers down his spine. He smelled like sunshine and rain.

_And you smell like a sewer full of fish guts, partner._

Derek felt his strength draining away like water rushing downhill. He shouldn't have let Stiles talk him into sitting down.

Stiles stood and washed his hands at the sink.

Derek stared at those slender hands, watched them caress each other under the flow of water, and for one foolhardy moment wished they would touch his face. He blinked the stupid thought away.

In that instant of dazed inattention, Stiles threw open the door and ran.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I promise you will find out who 'Jack O'Neil' is eventually and why he's kinda important.  
> Also I'm currently writing this on my iPad so autocorrect sometimes has a mind of it's own, so if you spot any mistakes please let me know


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